Hunters
by Fly and Crow
Summary: The Ronso was terrorizing his village. Conveniently, a Ronso hunter showed up. In the end, for the sake of the children - for the future - how far can one go?


He was standing outside his village when it happened, and witnessed it for himself: that brief moment between the snowstorm … and when the snow stopped falling. At first, he was unaware – snowfall was as violent as ever, pelting over the land with unrelenting force. And then, quite suddenly, he felt something was different about it. A strange gnawing at his gut. Before his eyes, like a trick, the snowfall thinned steadily, receding like a rolling scroll until, just like that … it was gone.

Without warning or reason, the sky suddenly … stopped. He had been there, watching it happen. And as he caught the last snowflake to fall from a now clear sky, he could not help but wonder if this was a sign. Or an omen.

It was one rare day for the Al Bhed settlers that no snow fell, and no one really knew what to do with such a change. The children, though, seemed to have a better idea than their elders. Why waste a good thing while it lasted?

"Fri!"

He turned, soon finding the one who had called out to him. The little boy was, for once, not running towards him at top speed. Instead, he was alternating between fidgeting and hopping on the spot – his growing body still unaccustomed to the concept of holding still – and waving a small hand at him almost desperately. As he made his way forward, closing the distance between them, the boy managed to at least stop his hopping.

"What is it, Tidus?" he asked.

"I lost it again, Fri!" the child – Tidus – answered. He seemed distressed as he pointed back at the whimsical device behind him. "I can't find it!"

Patiently, methodically, he maneuvered himself around the boy and attended to the device. Turning it on its axis upon a fixed mount, changing the angle, all the while peering through a hole at one end. Then, with a final tweak, he raised his head and stepped back.

"Found it."

At once the boy eagerly latched onto the device and peeked through the hole, impatient to see.

"You were pointing the telescope at the wrong side of the mountains again," he explained. "Can you see it now?"

"Yeah!"

And as little Tidus continued to watch from his telescope, Firion gazed into the distance across the snow-covered plains that separated their village from the mountains. From one specific mountain.

"Why do you always want to see Mt. Gagazet, Tidus?" he asked curiously. "Your mother told me you get nightmares about it."

"Uhn … well …" the boy started, never taking his eye off his target. "Cecil says we gotta stand watch. Maybe if I watch from this thing, I'll see 'em before they get here."

"Who, Ti?"

"The Ronso."

Firion fell silent, and the chilled air was too quiet for the child's liking. Finally abandoning his post, he turned and tugged at his older friend's sleeve.

"That's where they live, right?" he asked. "And where they take all those kids they steal? To eat?"

"…"

"Fri?"

"… Yes, Tidus. Mt. Gagazet _is_ their home," Firion answered at last. "I don't know about this 'eating' business you're talking about, but I _do_ know that they raise their families there." – the boy's eyes were wide with wonder, probably because the idea of monsters having families was new to him – "And it's also where they teach each other how to fight, how to forge their weapons, and how to shapeshift."

The boy's nose wrinkled in an expression of childish puzzlement. "What's that?"

"Shapeshifting? It's changing what they look like," Firion explained. "The Ronso can take three forms – they're usually what you see, but they can also become ordinary-looking lions. Or, if they really have to, people."

"Why?"

"To hide themselves better, I suppose." Couldn't think of a better reason aside from that. "But if you have a good nose on you, you'll know them by the blood on their breath, from all the raw meat they eat, and the scars they wear. There's always a mark somewhere near the center their foreheads, a poor way to mask where their horn is – they're too proud of it to hide it completely."

The boy was quiet … for a brief, brief moment in time, he was silent. Firion could almost see the cogs turning in his head. And then a thought emerged from the other side … "But if they can look like people, doesn't that mean they could come in here and no one would know?"

_Nice going,_ he reprimanded himself. _Give the kid one more thing to be scared of and have nightmares about._

But the damage was already done – time to follow through.

"That's why we're always so careful, Ti," he explained. "And that's why you need to be careful too and always listen to your mother. We can't let the Ronso come here and steal you, can we?"

"Not a chance!" the boy declared boldly, puffing his chest and swinging his small fist with bravado. "If a Ronso ever came after me, I'd cut his stupid ugly horn off!"

It alarmed him, just a little, that reaction he received. Still, for the child's sake, he smiled and rewarded him for it. With a rough life he was growing into out here, better he do it bold than remain timid all his life.

"That's my boy," he commended, reaching forward and ruffling unruly hair. He earned an indignant squawk for his actions. "… Now, who told you about Ronso eating children?"

"I dunno," Tidus answered innocently. "He didn't tell me his name."

Firion froze. "You spoke to a stranger, Tidus?"

"Uh huh."

_Don't panic. Tidus is still here. That means he's not what you think. Maybe still dangerous, but not what you think. Get more facts first. Don't panic._

"Where is he now, Ti?"

At once the small hand was out, pointing in the direction of their village elder's home. "He's still talking to Cecil."

"Thanks." And then he turned and started walking that way. "I need to talk to him, too."

"Can I come?"

"No, Tidus," he replied shortly. "It's grownup stuff. All very boring."

"Oh …" From his tone, he was far from convinced, far from satisfied and, thankfully, far from arguing about it. "… okay."

Determined to make it up to the kid later, Firion pressed on. Getting closer, he could see the warm orange glow of candlelight in the window – their elder was still entertaining their guest.

_Don't assume,_ he reminded himself. _Take nothing at face value. Not until you know what is going on._

"Cecil?" he called from the entrance.

"Firion. Come in."

Catching a handful of coarse fur, Firion pulled aside the insulating curtain that covered the entrance and stepped under it. His first sight was that of his village's leader. The months of harsh living in hostile lands had battered the once handsome visage of Cecil Harvey, leader of their group of pioneers, to something more weathered and aged and tragic. The monster whose fur now covered his door had claimed an eye, an infection from the lack of proper medical help had claimed an arm. The Ronso raiding the village and the death of fine fighting men had claimed much of the light in his spirit.

But he was still their leader, and looking at him did not take away any respect that the man had earned for himself before.

Currently, Cecil was sitting before his table set with two plates – recently emptied –, two mugs of steaming coffee and an oil lamp. Further in, further obscured by shadows, was a back he did not recognize.

"Is this a bad time?" Firion queried.

"Not at all – I was just about to call on you." And with that, Cecil pointed out his guest. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The stranger answered the cue smoothly, as though all this were rehearsed, and rose to his feet.

Illuminated in the flame's glow was a man with spiked hair of pale gold and eyes with emerald spirals at their center – the eyes of an Al Bhed. He was a little shorter than others in his peer group, but he was solid and stocky, and set against the ground beside him was a sword as tall as he was and just as heavy – if not heavier. He looked to be years younger than the man he stood a table across from, but he held the gaze of an aged veteran of many wars and many hunts. Like any other forced to live it rough, he wore clothes fashioned from pelts, and an outlandish guard carved from a skull and fixed with claws or fangs sat upon one shoulder.

"This is Cloud."

Firion did not say anything – at least, not with words. Instead, he leveled a hard gaze upon the intimidating stranger, this "Cloud" who had wandered into their village just when things were so tense. Sensing his hostility, Cloud smirked in a condescending manner.

"Relax, junior," he spoke gruffly. "I came here to help."

"You just told one of the kids that Ronso eat children. How is that helpful?"

"What? You don't like me talking to your kids?"

"I don't like you lying to them," Firion retorted. "The Ronso don't eat children. I've seen them help themselves to our livestock and our crops, but not–"

"Not people?" Cloud countered with a leer on his face. "You got proof that they don't?"

"And do you have proof that they do?"

The man did not answer at once, and in the light his already glowing eyes seemed to gain an additional spark of eerie flame. There was a creak as the sword's sharp tip pressed deeper into the ground, threatening to crack it open.

"Unfortunately for you …" he growled, baring teeth in a feral grin, "… I've got _plenty_."

"… A_hem_."

And just like that, swift and easy, Cecil brought what would have become an unnecessary argument to a close – one did not want to oppose him, and the other was not all that sure he could win if he did. Looking from one face to the other, Cecil finally settled his gaze on Cloud.

"Cloud is a hunter," he explained. "While his arrival was unexpected, he's staying at my request. At least, until he does the job I set for him."

"So you're saying he's the solution to our Ronso problem?" Firion countered darkly. "What's he going to do? Climb up Mt. Gagazet and kill all the Ronso?"

"Not all of them, junior," Cloud cut in again. "Just one. You don't have a problem with all of them. You have a problem with one of them."

This time, both the village leader and the youth stared at him in open surprise. Not looking up at either of them, Cloud nursed his mug of coffee and waited. The hook had been set; all he needed was for one of them to inspect the bait.

"… I'm listening."

A long, drawn-out sip, and then the mug was replaced on the table with a dull "clink". "Your Ronso is a rare freak of nature – an outcast for it, too. He's jet black with wings and a regular giant even amongst his own kind. A real nightmare, that one – strong enough to take down a Dragon, fast enough to disappear when things get ugly, smart enough to disguise his tracks whenever he can't cover them."

"And how do you know this?" Firion challenged.

"He's why I'm here," Cloud answered. "He's why I became a hunter of his kind in the first place."

The younger man did not bother holding back a laugh. "I _knew_ it. This is personal."

"Not gonna deny it," the hunter replied. "But the way I see it, my doing him in benefits us both. The least you could do is throw in a little … contribution …" – he paused to reach for his mug once more – "… or I could just wait until he cleans you out. Strips you of your crops, wipes out all your livestock … maybe move on to the rest of you.

"You haven't seen him eat a kid before?" – another pause, a small sip – "You wait long enough, maybe he might get ridiculously hungry and try."

And behind that mug, the man smiled as his catch circled that juicy, if not altogether true, bait a final time … and then swallowed it whole.

"What do you want, hunter?"

"Honestly, junior," – the cup hit the table again, empty now – "I want you."

Firion blinked.

"I've chased this one long enough to know that I can't do this job alone," Cloud went on. "Not anymore. I've managed to teach him how I fight, what I'm good at and what I'm bad at by attacking and failing one time too many. If I'm going to succeed, I'll need to take back the element of surprise, and I'll need that element to live long enough _to_ surprise – that's where you come in. Your boss says you're currently the best fighter in your group?"

"I _can_ fight, yes."

"Then I want you. I'll admit that you're not my first choice for a partner, but you'll do."

The younger man paused, studying the older quietly, thoughtfully … then he raised a brow. "… Are you hitting on me?"

In one priceless moment, the hunter was taken aback. Then his mask slid back into place. "I'm being serious, junior."

"Then don't call me 'junior'," Firion retorted, "and don't phrase it that way. And I'm not following you anywhere. I don't like you, I don't really respect you and I don't trust you. There's something you're obviously not telling us, and my gut tells me that something will either kill me or kill someone I care about by the time this is over."

"That's a good gut," Cloud commented. "Would make a great garter once that Ronso's done chewing on it."

They might have come to blows then, if not for the village's leader placing himself between them once more.

"That's enough. Wait outside, mercenary."

Cloud's eyes were wild with some unknown, predatory gleam, but he smirked and tipped his head in mock respect. "Whatever you say."

With a lazy swipe, the back of the hunter's hand batted the heavy furs out of his way and he slipped from the home. The thought of leaving him unwatched within a village filled with unsuspecting people was near enough to goad Firion into following, but the hand on his shoulder held him in place.

"… you want me to go with him."

"Yes."

"This won't end well, Cecil. You know that."

"I do know that, Firion, but I lie to myself that it won't. False hope is better than none."

"And will false hope kill a monster?"

A silence fell over them, a silence that was as cold and as uncomfortable as the frosty wind. The lamp went out, and Cecil removed his hand from the youth's shoulder to tend to it.

"… I just read my wife's letter this morning. She went into labor, and … I have a son now."

Firion turned at once, but Cecil would not meet his gaze.

"In a year or so, when both of them are fit to travel, they will come here. I want them to have something worth that trip," he elaborated. In a movement of deft fingers, the lighter sparked to life a small flame, and he gently coaxed it onto the wick. "A good man once said, 'I was a soldier so that my children could be merchants, so that their children could be artists.'

"It's unfair of me – Cosmos knows it's unfair of me to ask you to do this, but … if I could go myself, I would in a heartbeat."

"But you can't," Firion agreed. Both of them knew why. Both of them knew why their leader would only lead them in their general welfare and no longer on their hunts.

Grudgingly, Firion knew why he had to go.

"People have a right to be safe. I want Rosa and my son to be safe. Is that so much to ask?"

It was rhetorical. Firion knew in his heart that Cecil did not intend that to imply anything, to target him. It was just a tired, depressed lament of a man who was homesick for his family. That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

"… You win," he muttered. Turning, he gripped a handful of fur and pulled the drape back. "You both win."

"I'm sorry, Firion."

He didn't answer. The furs had flopped back into place, and the conversation was over.

It took him a while to assemble what little he needed – his weapons, sword and bow and arrow; his leathers, armor that was not as hard as the hunter's, but at least foul enough for a picky eater to hopefully change its mind; his brother's totem, the lion's head carved from bone. He muttered a short prayer over that last article before slipping it around his neck. Then, fully assembled, he stepped outside.

When he raised his head, he could see the hunter just ahead. Once again he was chatting with one of the locals, and it raised his hackles at how callous and casual the man was, including real, dangerous weapons into their "game". Especially when the innocent did not know better. And then the innocent watched him approach and waved eagerly. Smiling for the little one's sake, he reached forward and patted the head of hair under his fingers.

"Haven't lost it again yet, have you?"

"No."

"Good … I want you to do something for me, Tidus." And then he guided the boy back to his telescope, then prompted him to take it in hand once more. "I want you to keep an eye on the mountains for me. Stand watch. I'll be somewhere over there, and I want to know you're watching for me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

Cloud was watching them, still watching when Firion straightened and turned to face him.

"Fine, you've got me. Let's go."

The blond bared a feral grin and turned, already leading the way. He started to follow, then a warmth pressed against his leg. Looking down, he found Tidus hugging him tight and unwilling to let go. Not until he reached down again and took him gently by the shoulder.

"Don't stop watching, Ti. Don't stop looking out for me."

And then the child let him go, and he made his way out of the village, following in the footsteps of the one before him.

* * *

Still no snow, but the sky was preparing for when there would be. Clouded, gloomy, familiar – the lull before the storm. In its place, a light fog had settled in, enough to inconvenience but not enough to blind completely. Regardless of the fog, the break in snowfall had accelerated a trek that would have otherwise taken a day or so and sapped most of their will in the process.

Cloud looked neither to the left nor to the right, his intense focus trained on the blurred silhouettes of snowy mountains ahead as he put one foot in front of the other, each push through the snow tipping the trek he led like the sharp point of an arrow head. Firion's steps trailed easily behind the path the other cleared, but his eyes lingered around them, taking in the surroundings.

Already they had reached the foot of the mountain. A long path wound and wove its way from top to bottom, human civilization's mark on it before any further endeavor was forcefully abandoned.

"Well, here we are," the hunter declared. "You impress me, junior. I thought you would have caved in before the halfway mark."

"Stop calling me 'junior'," the villager retorted.

"Whatever. Are you ready for this?"

"No," he answered. "Does it matter?"

"Not at all." Then, "… Take two steps to your right."

"W-?"

"Do it."

Firion hesitated, and then he did as he was told. Half a second into a rush of wind and a terrible snarl, he regretted it.

Through the leather on his arm, he could feel the hot breath brush against him, could smell something rancid that was a mix of blood and rotting meat. He could see a glow of fire, a flash of steel. And if he had not moved his arm right at that point, he would have seen what it was like to have flesh torn from bone. But he had moved, and following that movement like a flag at the end of a cape was something large and black and fast as lightning.

And then the beast appeared before his eyes.

A lion. A lion with fur of solid dark shadow, dark as an abyss, and a mane as white as the snow it crushed to powder beneath each lethally armed paw. It was a massive creature towering above him even on all fours. Two bright stars of silver-blue light glowed in its eye sockets, trained on him, reading him, memorizing him. Jaws were parted to reveal dagger-like fangs, and the mist that condensed from the heat of its breath looked like smoke billowing from its mouth.

It made its move, just as Cloud made his. Everything was a blur of strikes, clashing in shrieks and rings and chimes. The beast had come at him so incredibly fast, and just as fast the hunter had come between them, a blur of bright metal arcing with him.

And then … just too fast … it was just Cloud and the wind.

"He's gone," the hunter reported calmly.

Firion swallowed – he had not realized his throat ran dry. " … Did you get him?"

"Oh, I got him …" And Cloud turned around.

The length of his blade was bright red.

"… I got him alright."

It was in that moment that Firion knew he was out of his league, in over his head. There was no questioning Cloud's ability to hold his own, to not only do his job but do it without even trying. And he … he did not even know if he could survive this.

Wait …

"Did you just use me as a shield?"

"Of course not," Cloud answered. "I used you as bait. Worked like a charm."

For a second, the fear was replaced by indignant anger – it helped considerably. "I know I can't kill you, but I think I really, really want to right now."

"There we go, you're all feisty again," the hunter remarked with a chortle. "Good. Keep that up. Ronso do enjoy the taste of feist."

"What are you talking about?" Firion snapped. "You got him, didn't you?"

"Got him? Yes. Killed him? No. Not yet, anyway." And Cloud turned back to where the entrance to Mt. Gagazet's footpath began. "He got away for a moment, but we can always reel him back in with just the right incentive.

"See, there's something interesting I learned about this one from all this time of hunting … he's a guardian. He is an outcast, but he protects those that kicked him out anyway. All he has to do is hear the screams, smell the bloodbath, and he'll come running. Even if he knows it's a trap, that's it's me drawing him out again, he'll come. It's why he attacked us now instead of hiding like he always does – he's that predictable. And that's our advantage."

Realization hit. Fear left altogether. Firion stepped around Cloud and placed himself between the path and the man.

"You said you wouldn't."

"What _did_ I say, junior?" Cloud asked, his tone condescending. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking you're going to go up this mountain and kill every Ronso we meet until the one you want shows up," Firion replied. "I'm thinking I recalled you saying that our problem is not with all of them – just one. And I'm thinking I can't let you do this."

Cloud froze. There was something dancing in his eyes that didn't look calm. Didn't look rational. Didn't look human.

"… can't 'let' me, you say?" he challenged softly. "What makes you think you can stop me?"

He didn't think that far, but he had a card. He could play it.

"You need me," he said. "You need me in this fight, or you wouldn't have bothered coming to us at all. And I promise you, you go up there and hurt any of those who had nothing to do with this, and I'll do everything in my power to get in your way. Whether you kill me or stop me from interfering, you won't have me for the rest of the fight. You'll be back to square one. Think you can handle that?"

"I can live with it. I can just wait until next time."

How does one call a bluff? Bluff right back.

And hope the other guy caves first in the game of chicken.

"But you don't have a 'next time', do you?" he returned challenge with challenge. "You want him now. I don't know why, but it can't be next time. It has to be now."

Silence. Sizing each other up. Weighing out options. Every heartbeat felt like a heat attack in itself.

And then …

"Fine."

Cloud folded.

"Your call, junior. No more 'innocents' for you to cry yourself to sleep over tonight."

Thank Cosmos Cloud folded.

"But see, junior, I need you to understand something," Cloud continued to speak. "This isn't your hunting grounds anymore. This isn't your turf – it's his. His and every Ronso's that lives here. If we're going to make it out alive, with or without our quarry, we'll have to stick together. We'll have to be close. Close like brothers … you understand me, right? I am your brother now, and as your brother, I need your strength on my side."

Suddenly a hand shot forward and grabbed him by his throat, clenched tightly – painfully – and squeezing with little restraint.

"But get in my way one more time," he continued without pause, "and I swear I won't hesitate to string you up as a proper bait – warm, fresh, bloody and very, _very dead_."

Then the hand let him go, and Cloud trudged back through the snow. Catching his breath, Firion raised a hand to touch his sore neck. It was already bruising, but it would not hinder him in the battle to follow – the other was at least careful about that. At least, he hoped so.

"You stay here. Get a fire going," the hunter instructed. "Wait until I return."

"Where are you going?"

"Don't worry, junior. I already told you I wouldn't go slaughtering kittens tonight …" Cloud drawled, already disappearing into the fog with his blood-soaked sword in hand. "… not the 'innocent' ones, anyway."

* * *

Night had already fallen, and still no sign of Cloud. Firion found himself increasingly grateful for the stop in snowfall that enabled him to clear a spot for his fire, that allowed him to keep it going as long as he did. There was barely any trees around, and all the wood was wet. It was so hard to start that fire, and harder still to keep it alive, but somehow he was doing it.

And then he felt more than heard the presence of another joining him. Immediately his hand reached for his weapon.

"Who's there?"

There was a pause – hesitation – and then the other stepped into the clearing. It wasn't Cloud, but a young-looking fellow – not much older than himself – wearing a short coat made of dark fur with a white fur hood – a hood that he kept up and over his head to obscure his features. He was well-covered for the weather but unarmed, a strange combination if he ever saw one.

"I … apologize," the stranger started – his voice, too, sounded young. "May I join you for a moment?"

And as he looked at him, Firion found it stranger still that even as his gut had tightened for a moment into something cold and scared … he could sense nothing evil in him. Perhaps it was his own inexperience at fault, but there was nothing malicious in the other's posture. He didn't feel like trouble. That had to be good enough. That had to be enough to trust him, but he couldn't. He wanted to – could truly use companionship at a time like this – but he couldn't.

His hand did not leave his weapon, but against his better judgment his head nodded.

"Thank you."

The young man sat with even grace, barely a rustle, and stared into the fire. His eyes were dull and gray and held the gaze of a tired old man who had lived long enough, suffered through enough and was just waiting to die.

"You have a question for me," he suddenly stated.

"Not really," Firion answered. "I'm just curious about you. You dress like one who hunts to survive, but you don't carry a weapon. Did you lose it? Or maybe you don't need one … I knew a man who could fight with whatever he could get his hands on … and then fight even if there was nothing nearby. Then again, you could also have just bought those furs from someone. Just a traveler or a wanderer. Or a vagabond going from place to place."

"You have a lot to say." Just a comment. Again, no anger or resentment.

Firion shrugged. "I'm freezing. It keeps me warm and relatively sane."

"You are … hardened, but not wholly so. Not as much as your friend." And as Firion tensed, he explained, "I was listening, before I approached you. I overheard the words … and I approached you because of what you said. You … appreciate the sanctity of life."

"Some would call it ignorance," Firion answered lightly. The other huffed in amusement – the most emotion he had shown – and went back to staring at the flames.

"You are one of the villagers, living in the shadow of this mountain," he spoke again. "Why have you come all the way out here?"

"If you heard, you know. There is a Ronso we must hunt."

"A deed must be done, but that is not what I ask. I ask why _you_ come."

Firion had not taken his eye off the other, but his finger slipped from its grasp around his sword's hilt. "Because I'm the only one who can," he answered. "Because there were only two other able fighters who were better than me, and this Ronso killed them both. One was a father and a good friend, the other was my brother. Better men than I will ever be, and both dead."

"Vengeance, then?" the man asked, remaining completely unbothered. "Vengeance, I understand."

"Not revenge. Necessity," Firion insisted. "Those who died knew they would. Eventually. I know I too will die one day, out here. It's necessary. It can't be avoided. We made our peace with death, but I'm here now because … because there is still life here. There will be _more_ life here. _Innocent_ life. Life that I can't watch die before me."

"… You speak of children." There was a glimpse of _something_ in that voice. Something … he could not grasp.

"If I must die here, I die knowing I left behind a safer world for them."

The man was staring at him now, though the shadow of the hood kept his expression from being seen. He was seeing something that Firion did not know, and whatever it was seemed good enough, seemed worthy enough for … who knew what. The man stared, long and thoughtful, and then he started to rise.

That was when Firion finally saw – was finally allowed to see – the blood that was heavy and thick across the man's chest. Bright, bold and red.

"You're hurt … !"

"Wounds will heal," the man spoke softly in answer. "I … have made many mistakes. I will pay for them. I am ready to. I … I know you are not like the other. I … can trust you …"

And then he reached up and pulled his hood back. His face, exposed, was surprisingly cherubic in nature, with a heart-shaped face and high cheek bones. Across the bridge of his nose, just under his forehead, was a mark. A scar that ran between his eyes.

"Human … I give you my solemn word," he rumbled, his voice like a low growl. "What I have done against your fellow men, and what I have done against you … none of it was personal."

That wrong feeling in his gut tightened even further. What had this man done? What was it that wasn't 'personal'? And what did he mean by … " … '_human_'?"

"Please … listen to me-"

Then the fire went out. A swift strike of cold wind that sang a high note through the night air. With only the stars to illuminate the sudden darkness that fell over them, Firion could still make out the silhouette of the third one in their midst. Someone he could, at last, recognize.

"_Found you_," Cloud growled.

And then he struck again, his sword flying inches from the wounded man. A wounded man who by no means should have been able to dodge a blow like that in his condition.

"This isn't the helpless or the feeble you're up against, demon," Cloud goaded, so angry and agitated all of a sudden. "Let's see how you do against _real_ power."

Seconds too late Firion realized he had been played again. Used again. He had been the bait again, and he could have died just to give Cloud the element of surprise he had been after. Yet none of that seemed to truly matter right now.

The man had paused, staring into his eyes. Then, reading them and understanding them, the dull grays disappeared behind the veil of lids … and then opened again to burn in silver light.

It happened so very fast, that the change seemed instantaneous and without any transition. A man in a fur cloak suddenly _exploded_ outward, replaced violently by a creature that was neither man nor beast but something more. Black fur covered every inch of a body that stood upright on two legs, and a tail arched like a viper and cracked like a whip. Wings of black bone and silver feathers burst into sight in a shower of loose feathers, so very vivid where they had been invisible moments ago.

And that face … the lion. _That_ lion. Except now he could see horns – not one, but three – that were as red as blood and long and sharp as swords. He could see elbows with scythes jutting from them like cowters and five-fingered hands that ended in the fine tips of claws. He could see exactly how tall the massive beast of before was, now that it was standing tall and staying put, now that it meant business and was ready to fight to the death this time.

He had seen Ronso before. He had met one in combat and was miraculously fortunate to escape intact from that encounter. But this … this was nothing like he had known. This was nothing like a Ronso before him, as much as it looked the part.

This was a monster.

And then there was another monster in the skin of a human, one that was charging and fierce and violent and unwilling to let up for a second. And laughing. All throughout, laughing with vengeful pleasure and raw fury.

"How does it feel to fight something that can fight back, _huh_?" Cloud was shouting above the angry roars and the flashes of sharp talon against sharp metal. "How does it feel to be the prey for a change? How does it feel to be pursued by someone who isn't going to back off or give up? Tell me, devil lion – _how does it feel?_"

The lion was streaming blood between them, blood that flew hot and heavy over the snow and melted its top layer and dyed the second red. But it was fighting back with a sheer, powerful force that rumbled through the earth and the air and echoed with its thundering snarls and roars. Firion wondered why it wasn't trying to fly away, why it allowed itself to stay grounded like this. Was this truly a fight for honor or some other moral that only applied to those who cherished it?

Or was there something more … ?

The lion had been trying to tell him something … but what? What was it trying to say?

And then he watched with alarm and amazement as the creature struck back at Cloud … and hit its mark. More blood sprayed forth, and the hunter was flying backwards. Hitting something … a wall. A wall that had been unseen before because of night and fog. And then he was falling – not with the natural bracing for the inevitable or even a flailing of arms, but a limp drop. Down … down … down … _impact._

And there Cloud lay, motionless. The red fanned through the white beneath him steadily. The Ronso was staring at the fallen form, was sinking into a crouch while bleeding its life away, but it was not relaxing. It was simply waiting.

Then a hand moved and pushed against the snow, pushing the body upward. Blond hair was now reddish-gold with the mix of blood from newly-developed head wounds, and the blood that dribbled from between his bared teeth came not as a trickle but as a flow. When he got to his feet, Firion felt nauseous – he could see more than just blood leaking from the ripped hole in Cloud's gut.

"That … all you got … ?" He paused to spit the blood to the snow. "If I'm going down … I'm not going down that easy … I'm not going down alone … Not … _without_ … _you_ …!"

Yet it was the lion who moved first, flying at him – flying for the first time through the whole battle. Desperation … or concession? A question that would never find its answer.

They were already drawing into each other. Opposite forces that were clashing with magnetic likeness. Roars that were equally feral, equally mad, equally desperate to see the end of this.

And then the snow and the rocks erupted around them, cloaking them where the fog could not. Rumbles echoed for miles around, shaking all that heard it to the very core. Firion wondered if his village could hear it. He wondered if the Ronso of Mt. Gagazet could hear it.

And then he heard nothing. Nothing but silence.

The debris cleared. The fog lessened.

Cloud was on the ground once more and would no longer rise. A hole in his chest. A clawed hand that was soaked and dripping cradled his heart. It seemed the beast holding such a prize might bite into it or squeeze it till it burst apart … but it didn't. The claw slackened, dropping the meaty organ to the snow with a soft, wet "plop".

And then the lion turned to look at him. The fire was smoldering … dying.

"_You … are not like the other … _" the lion spoke, its voice a rumble between a soft growl and a snarl. "_You … you will hear me …_"

Firion said nothing. His throat had run dry again, and he could not think of anything to say. It did not seem appropriate in this time and setting.

"… _I have killed … I have killed yours … I have killed his …_" and the lion was slowly dropping, sinking back onto all fours, "_… blood for blood … life for life … I killed his family … I wounded his pride … I owed him this …_"

The lion was dying. The monster that plagued his village was dying before his eyes. A sight he never thought he would see. A sight he never realized he would be so unwilling to see.

"_I owe you this … My life is yours …_" the Ronso spoke, "_in exchange … Spare them …_"

_What?_ Firion found his feet, found the courage to approach. "Them?"

"_The children … please … my life for the children … spare the children …_"

"What children?"

"_We … only wanted to … protect … the children …_"

"_What_ children?" Firion demanded. "Is it true, then? Have you stolen children and brought them here to eat?" When the beast did not answer, he advanced, close enough for an arrow to nick its throat. "What children, monster? _What children?_"

"… _I was … just trying … to feed them …_" the beast rumbled, its voice drifting into a faint whisper. "_We were just … so hungry … just wanted … to feed her … to feed … children … was not personal … just … protect … the children …_"

Then there was no more to say.

The beast was killed.

Then, for no reason he could truly think of, Firion was suddenly drawn toward that wall. Something was telling him that his answers were waiting somewhere close to that wall. He had a feeling it was his gut, and so far his gut had not been wrong.

He stepped pass the corpses, stepped through red snow. Then he found himself stepping onto something that wasn't snow – was earth. A cave entrance. He stepped inside.

Something bumped against his foot. He reached down to touch … fur … a fur pelt … a body that was shaped like a … woman's …?

He heard a soft mewling. He saw tiny wisps of light staring back at him.

He saw …

"… 'the children' …"

Outside the cave, a snowflake fell. Then more came after it. The snow was falling again, covering the blood that had been spilled. All things would be white again. All things would be frozen in snow, buried and forgotten here.

As though none of it had ever happened.

* * *

Morning came. Morning passed. Half the day went by.

Little Tidus was manning his telescope, waiting for a sign of the one who counted on him. So far he saw nothing – maybe he had lost Mt. Gagazet again. He tried to fix it himself … he tried so hard … and then he spotted something that wasn't the mountains … someone …

"… _Fri_!"

Stumbling over the snow, the boy ran as fast as his legs would carry him through the village, out the village, right to where the other was slowly walking toward him. The man he loved like an older brother was a mess. He was covered in patches of red and smelled funny. But it was Fri. He had come home.

He latched on at once, questions flying from him just as quickly. "Where's the stranger? Did he leave? Did you do it? Is it safe now? Did you get the Ronso? Did you kill them? Did you kill them all-?"

"Tidus," Fri answered him, "not here. Not until we're in the village."

"But-"

A hand shot out and grabbed the back of his shirt, forcing him to turn around. He was confused – Fri had not acted like this before. Not unless he was really mad at something.

He was quiet, stayed quiet until they passed through the gate. Then Fri pointed him back in the direction of the telescope, did not stop walking until he was right in front of it.

Then he let go. Then he stopped looking angry. Instead … he was sad …

It was all very confusing.

"… Fri?"

"… the Ronso is dead, Tidus," Fri answered him at last. "It … he did bad things. He probably deserved it. He had it coming. But that doesn't make it a good thing."

"Why?"

"… 'why'?" And then Fri turned to look at him. He still looked so sad … but there was something else he wasn't old enough to recognize yet. "That's something you'll have to figure out for yourself. Do that, and you'll know you're a man … and just what kind."

He didn't understand. Fri probably did not mean for him to understand. One more pat to his head, and Fri was away in his head again, thinking so deep that no one could get his attention until he was done.

"Cosmos, forgive us," he whispered – was he praying? "We had no idea …

"We didn't know …"

* * *

It was snowing like it had never snowed before, the sky's seeming need to compensate. Footprints disappeared as quickly as they were formed.

One lone figure made his way down the footpath from Mt. Gagazet. Each step that sunk into the rising snow was careful, the tail behind him flicked back and forth in effort to keep balance, and in one clawed hand was an expertly hand-crafted lance that was older than its wielder.

He was an adolescent, his bright blue coloring just starting to darken as coarser fur grew in, and in his awkwardness was a sense of purpose. Today, like it or not, was his first trip down from the mountain. His first hunt. No one would know he left and no one would know until he returned – as expected of a stealthy hunter.

As he reached the bottom, he sniffed the air carefully. He could just pick out something, faint as it was. There was that hint of blood. He followed it to its source.

When he arrived, he knew he was too late. The two mounds in the snow were already frozen and impossible to move – useless to any who might investigate. No wonder they were left untouched. Too bad, though. One of them was huge, enough to feed at least half the tribe. Out of curiosity, he brushed some of the snow aside, to uncovered what giant lay beneath the ice.

Then his ears picked up a soft yowling. He turned, peering through the snowfall to make out the source of it.

A cave entrance. There, still somewhat on solid ground, two blue-furred kittens – both female – were playing tug-of-war with what appeared to be the remains of an Imp. Then a little male of jet black emerged and pounced on them playfully before stealing the piece of meat for himself. One of the females hissed indignantly and shifted forms, adopting hands instead of forepaws to seize one end and pull at it again.

He watched them for so long that eventually the little black male noticed him. The cub dropped the meat at once and snarled angrily, his hackles raising and his eyes slits as he defended his sisters.

The young Ronso had heard stories amongst his elders. He suspected. He wondered.

He went down on one knee and set his lance on the ground beside him. He held out his hands to them in offering, and then he waited.

The black cub's growling started to slow, as he seemed to catch on, to understand. He displayed an intelligence surpassing his age as he slowly silenced, his eyes a little wider but still wary. Then he sat up straight and mewed, his tail flicking back and forth behind him. Then, with his sisters half a step behind him, he came forward.

The young Ronso waited with his arms open, to greet them.

And the little ones ran to him.


End file.
